Dignity
by GreenGreatDragon
Summary: Thranduil, despite being the Elvenking, was not invited to the White Council. However, they were thoughtful enough to send him a short summary of their meeting, which brings to Thranduil's attention how disregarded he and his people are by the "Wise" of Middle-Earth. Perhaps a short conversation with Legolas will help improve Thranduil's mood.


I have come to realize I may have an obsession with the Mirkwood Elves. It began with Legolas, for the simple reason that there is so little known about him, and then grew to include Thranduil - for the same reason - and then, once it occurred to me that there were three Elven Rings, three major Elven realms, and only two of said realms had rings, my imagination went wild and has been running rampant ever since. Anyway, my first thought after watching the White Council scene in The Hobbit was what impact would it have on Thranduil if they had sent him a message summarizing the meeting?

I am very uncertain about certain details, so I have made them up to fit with my preconceived ideas. If you find anything that might need correcting, let me know what it is and where to look it up (I have most of the HoME, but not all) and I will research it and may or may not change it. I hope you enjoy!

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Legolas found his father standing in one of the few doorways of the stronghold which still opened onto a balcony. The Elvenking was staring toward the Forest, leaning his weight onto his shoulder against the door frame, and appeared to be lost in his thoughts, though he did not start when Legolas spoke. "I am told you received a message from Imladris. What does Lord Elrond have to say?"

"It is from Imladris, but not exactly from Elrond."

"From whom, then?"

Thranduil's arms were crossed, but he held in one hand a piece of paper. He waved it while his arms remained unmoving. "They are calling themselves the 'White Council'."

The precise enunciation used to articulate the title displayed Thranduil's displeasure. Legolas took the letter with a confused glance at his father, and, skipping the main body of the letter, looked immediately to the bottom of the page and the signatures. "The White Council, consisting of: Saruman the White of Isengard, Gandalf the Grey Pilgrim, Lady Galadriel of Lothlorien, Lord Elrond of Imladris," he read aloud. "They formed a council, but decided to include only the head of Wizards and the bearers of the Three? Quite an exclusive gathering, Father, but hardly surprising. Surely you are not upset that they did not invite you?"

"Read on, Legolas."

And he did. "To the Elvenking of Mirkwood, Thranduil Oropherion: We have received word of trouble within Mirkwood. One called 'Necromancer' has been effecting difficulties, but we have come to the conclusion that he cannot be a serious threat to the peace of Middle-Earth. He is most likely a Man - an amateur sorcerer who will soon discover that he is not capable of handling such power as he wishes and shall then cease his menacing. If there are any evidences to the contrary, we shall inform you and hope you shall do the same. Further counsel will be given if the situation requires."

Legolas finished reading aloud, then his mouth dropped open. He looked from the message to his father a few times, then eventually rediscovered his voice. "_They_ seek to inform _you_ of happenings_ in Mirkwood_? The fact that there is no ring here does not preclude that you have no idea of what is going on."

"Yet the powerful always assume the less powerful to be powerless."

The quiet statement went unacknowledged.

"And 'Further counsel will be given...' How gracious of them to offer their assistance before it is needed or requested! How can they..."

"That will be enough."

"They have always undermined us, but..."

"Please, Legolas."

This time the son stopped talking long enough to catch the weary tone in his father's voice. "I have spoken to you about this multiple times, Legolas. They are my peers - a fact which I am certain they have purposefully forgotten for an alarming amount of time - and so I may say that they are prudish, condescending bullies, but they are your elders, and I shall not allow you to disrespect them thusly."

A sharp glare from the king discouraged Legolas' retort, so he bowed his head and nodded his consent. Satisfied, Thranduil allowed his head to join his shoulder in seeking support from the wooden frame. "While we do not court the approval of the Noldor, perhaps we should not so actively court their disapproval."

There was a pause, during which both Elves were occupied watching their forest. A slight breeze was fluttering just enough of the leaves and treetops to make them stir as Thranduil imagined the waters of the sea to do. They moved sometimes singly, sometimes within ranks, pulsating and ever-changing, reflecting the starlight. It was as if the life-blood of the forest, which was in turn the life-blood of his people, had become visible. And, though it was true that he had no Ring, he was at least a competent enough ruler to know that said life-blood had become tainted.

He knew he could never understand the trees as well as the Silvan majority of his subjects, but the trees had seemingly reached out to him since he returned as king from the War. They had accepted him as their caretaker without reserve, which humbled him and gave him a high standard by which he must now live. So the trees kept him in their counsel and informed him of movements within the wood, though his Sindarin blood was occasionally a hindrance and he had to ask the aid of Legolas, who had inherited his mother's affinity with and comprehension of trees. But he had by no means required Legolas' interpretation when it came to the sickness rippling through his land. The unease within his breast had grown from an occasional discomfort to an unrelenting dull ache. This was unmistakably the trees' communication.

Without realizing it, his hand moved to rest on his chest and he closed his eyes. "What am I to do?"

The whisper came from the depths of his soul, for it was a question that had been torturing him for many years now. Every morning, when he rose from his rest, he poured all the energy he could spare into his trees through their bond in an effort to revive them. But he had always been primarily a warrior, and every Elf knew that hampers the healing ability. It was not enough to make much of a difference, but the trees appreciated it, and it set an example for his Silvan people, who followed it and were a little more successful.

All of his warriors were constantly on duty; their only relative reprieve came when guarding the stronghold and grounds came up in their rotation and they could lodge inside the fortress. Their families were allowed to come and stay in the guest chambers during such times, for it was the only opportunity to visit their loved ones.

Because of the catastrophic devastation wrought in their numbers during the War, the Elves of Mirkwood had been loathe to continue adding children to their families, but as grief mellowed the sound of small, high voices had been heard again. But only for a small space of time, before the Shadow had returned. Legolas had been born in this interlude and was able to have something of a childhood, but one hardly worth mentioning. For Thranduil had been forced to make the most torturous decision of his life: requiring weapons training be given to children. Even with the new generation bringing some semblance of hope, there were not sufficient numbers in the ranks to protect them from the Darkness. Women had already been encouraged to become warriors - and many had, and shown themselves more than worthy of the title - but their traditional role as healers was also desperately in need of fulfillment.

So the only remaining untapped resource was the young ones. Every Elf-child in Mirkwood who had reached the age of fifteen years of Men was obligated to report to the stronghold to begin training and drills, so that by the age of twenty years they could begin actively defending their homeland. The Elvenking was forced to hear the oaths of allegiance recited by the twenty-year-olds, whom a Man would have assumed to have been in the world no more than eight years, knowing that they would be put on the least active duties, but also that there were still dangers there which no little one should have to face, and also that such assignments couldn't last forever.

Predictably, it became a cycle: there were few children, therefore the children became warriors, therefore parents ceased bringing children into the world.

Legolas was only just now approaching the age at which Thranduil had earned the rank of warrior, but he had already seen a few centuries' worth of bood and killing and sorrow. He already had the bond with his friends that comes from having stood shoulder-to-shoulder against an enemy charge.

To ask for aid would mean admitting defeat, for then the woodland folk would not even have their pride, and they insisted on having that. Besides, any such request had thus far only been met minimally and grudgingly, not to mention condescendingly.

Thranduil had sacrificed his own energy, his people's energy, his people's livelihoods, lives that could have been but were not, and the blood of men, women, and children to protect his forest home. All this, and the best he could report to himself was that his people were managing to hold their own and trade was healthy enough to allow for regular feasts, which proved enough of a distraction to keep morale from sinking too low.

Pressure on his formerly free shoulder caused Thranduil to open his eyes. Legolas had moved closer to him and rested his head on Thranduil's shoulder. Despite his gloomy thoughts, a smile crept onto the king's face and he wrapped an arm around his son's shoulders.

"You ask what you are to do," Legolas said quietly, eyes sweeping over the trees as he both sought and gave comfort to his father. "What more can you do? If your account is read in the Halls of Mandos, for what have you to answer?"

"I am a king who has failed to protect his charges. They deserve not to be persecuted, derided, outcast, fighting for their lives every day, with no one to come to their defense but themselves."

"Father, they have their identity. Your actions have allowed them to retain their dignity, culture, language, customs, all that defines a people as separate from another. They are the Elves of Taur-na-Fuin and proud to be so, and that is all they ever required of you. You have not failed them, Elvenking."

Thranduil turned his head and kissed Legolas' brow. "I thank you, my son." Then a sigh escaped him. "But what of you, then, Legolas Greenleaf? If your mother and I hadn't been so wary, you would have come into this world earlier and may have had the opportunity to become something other than a warrior - perhaps a minstrel, with your gift of song. You may have become as legendary as Daeron himself."

Legolas shook his head quickly. "I sincerely doubt that. But, in any case, the fault is not yours; if anything else had come to pass, I would be someone else. There would be no me, and would that not be a devastating loss to the world? Surely Middle-Earth would disintegrate into dust if I were not here, being exactly myself and no one else!"

Thranduil laughed out loud. "Legolas, at times I believe that would be preferable to dealing with your cheek! But I suppose what has been done cannot be altered, and I would never wish you to be anyone but yourself. Unless it was a less mischievous, less annoying version of yourself, that is."

"Father! I am irrevocably offended." And the son made a show of stomping out of the room.

The Elvenking chuckled as he picked up the discarded letter from the ground. Somehow it did not bother him so much now. What did it matter than the stuck up Noldor and Istari thought him a fool? He knew he was not, his people knew he was not, his trees knew he was not, and, most importantly, his son knew he was not. Those were the only ones he had to answer to, and whose opinion counted. He had made a vow upon receiving his crown to proudly uphold his people's dignity. Now, audible only to the trees, he reinstated that vow.

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Let me know what you think! ConCrit is always encouraged, but if you feel like mindlessly gushing, I'm not going to try too hard to stop you.


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